


2 a.m. hot chocolate

by nowforruin



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2015-03-31
Packaged: 2018-03-20 12:17:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3650022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nowforruin/pseuds/nowforruin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I don’t even know your name.” It’s a weak protest at best, because she doesn’t know his name, but she’s come to know a piece of his soul, one mug of hot chocolate at a time. She knows what he looks like when he’s struggling to hold on, because 2 a.m. isn’t a time for secrets, and neither is the creeping dawn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	2 a.m. hot chocolate

The first time he comes in, it’s two in the morning, but it’s busy as hell because the bars just closed and everyone is here for their grease and their coffee and their French fries. She barely notices him, alone in a booth, doesn’t even really see him as she scribbles his order on her pad – a coffee with rye toast – and rushes off.

 

She’s irritated, if she’s honest. A guy taking up an entire table for a bill that’s going to be less than $5. If she’s lucky, he’ll leave her a dollar tip.

 

The rush sweeps her along, running from one table to another, slinging coffee and fries like she was born to it (it feels that way sometimes). At least Ruby is here with her tonight, the two of them ruling the diner like their own kingdom.

 

A kingdom of madmen.

 

She passes him with the coffee pot in hand, her eyes carefully searching his mug to determine if he’s in need of a refill, but he’s not. She doesn’t have time to look much further, though the blue of his eyes is a shock as her eyes lift to move on to the next.

 

He doesn’t eat the toast. He doesn’t drink the coffee. But there’s a twenty sitting on the table with his check once he leaves. Emma swears it’s a mistake, but pockets the money with a small smile. She wonders if maybe he’s a bartender – industry people are the ones who tend to leave randomly inflated tips just to make another person happy. Whatever the reason, she thanks him silently and moves on.

 

The next time she sees him, it’s two a.m., but it’s Tuesday, and the bar closing isn’t cause for an influx of drunks and college kids. He slides into a booth, orders coffee and toast, and stares out the window. She notices this time the way the sleeve of his left arm hands loosely at the end of his wrist where his hand should be, and she struggles not to stare.

 

Those brilliant blue eyes of his are terribly sad, and she wishes for a moment she could sit with him, maybe talk for a few minutes, but Ruby is calling her to cover her tables while she ducks outside for a smoke, and Emma turns with a sigh.

 

Cold coffee and cold toast are sitting on the table when she makes it back again, another twenty neatly left on top of the bill for $4.58.

 

She frowns this time, picking up the slip and studying it. Is he hitting on her? Is that what this is supposed to be about? She scowls at the slip, but there’s no writing on it, no insulting message or sleazy line or phone number.

 

Ruby looks at her like she’s crazy when she mentions it, the man with the blue eyes and the sadness radiating from him. “He’s leaving you a ridiculously good tip and he doesn’t require any work. That’s a blessing, Emma. I’ll wait on him next time if it bugs you.”

 

“No way.”

 

She tells herself it’s because she’s not handing over such a good tip to Ruby, but it’s not entirely true. She’s drawn to him, this man who stares out the window into the parking lot, who wraps his hand around the mug of coffee but never drinks it, who arrives in the small hours of the night looking like he hasn’t slept in weeks.

 

It’s a few days before she works the overnight again, and as the clock draws nearer to two, she finds herself oddly anticipating his arrival. It’s a stupid thing, looking forward to a customer who barely speaks, who doesn’t order much and doesn’t eat what he does order. Ruby catches her looking at the clock and rolls her eyes, and Emma feels just a little bit silly.

 

It’s 2:08 when he appears at the same booth. She really looks at him today as she approaches, notices the line of his jaw and the rich stubble covering it, the way the black hoodie he’s wearing clings to his shoulders. His skin is pale, like he hasn’t seen enough of the sun, and there’s a thick silver band around his index finger. He’s anxious tonight, his fingers drumming against the tabletop as she approaches.

 

“Do you...” She hesitates, not wanting to insult him, because instead of the gentle melancholy she’s grown used to, there’s rage burning in him tonight. But he softens when she speaks, and he waits politely for her to finish. “Do you want something you might actually eat tonight?”

 

He chuckles, and it’s a smooth rumble of noise that reminds her of a cat sunning itself on a cold winter day, one tiny patch of sunlight driving away the cold. “What would you recommend?”

 

“Cupcakes from the bakery that isn’t open,” she replies before she can stop herself, her cheeks flaming. “Sorry. Sugar is my midnight snack craving. We haven’t got cupcakes, and the donuts are stale by now. So…hot chocolate?”

 

“Aye, hot chocolate it is.” He smiles at her again before she walks away, feeling oddly warm in spite of her outburst. But when she glances back over her shoulder, he’s staring back out the window, and he could burn the whole place down with the inferno of hatred in his eyes.

 

He drinks the hot chocolate. She doesn’t bring him toast. There’s another twenty on the table.

 

It’s 2:03 the next night when she comes out of the kitchen to find him at the same table. He’s calmer again, the blue of his eyes a warm summer day as she smiles at him in passing, her arms laden with drinks for another table. He smiles back, a curved grin that could be a smirk but if it is, it’s a friendly one.

 

He thanks her when she brings him another hot chocolate, and she wonders if maybe tonight he’ll feel like talking, but he’s staring out the window again and she feels like she’s intruding, so she walks away.

 

“I think he’s definitely hitting on you,” Ruby tells her as they scrape garbage from dirty plates in the back, tossing the dishes into the waiting racks to be washed. “He came in when we weren’t working nights. I asked. He looked around but didn’t stay. He comes to see you.”

 

“Really?” She frowns, because _that_ is a little weird. He doesn’t seem like a stalker, though. He just tips her absurdly well.

 

Tonight, there’s a double-chocolate cupcake from the bakery she mentioned sitting on top of the check and the twenty. She just stares at it, the delicate pink writing on the plastic container, the perfect swirl of the frosting. She made one comment about the bakery, and now there’s a cupcake waiting for her. What she didn’t say was that these are her favorite ones, but somehow, he’s figured it out.

 

She doesn’t tell Ruby about the cupcake.

 

The weekend arrives, and she’s working days, a fact that usually cheers her up. Saturday and Sunday breakfast shifts are good money shifts, and she does well, but she sort of misses the quiet in the dead of night and his melancholy smile.

 

She wakes up at 2:13 in the morning, and she wonders if he’s at the diner, looking for her. She almost gets dressed, goes in to see if he’s there, but she won’t get there in time and even if she did, it’s ridiculous. Right?

 

 

“Thank you for the cupcake,” she says softly when she sees him next, sliding his hot chocolate across the table. She doesn’t ask anymore – she sees him sitting there on her way to one table or another and just makes it. “How did you know it was my favorite?”

 

He shrugs, eyes already drifting toward the window. It’s raining tonight, thick droplets slipping down the glass even as she watches the sheets of rain chase each other across the parking lot. It floods when it rains, and she’s not looking forward to practically having to wade to her car when her shift ends.

 

“Can I…do you want anything else?”

 

He turns back to her, and for a brief moment, something comes to life in his expression, something needy and _wanting_ and maybe even a little desperate, but it’s so fast she’s not sure if she’s imagined it. “I want many things, lass. But the hot chocolate will do.”

 

His stare burns into hers, the rich blue of summer twilight, night about to take over, and then he’s back to watching the rain.

 

“Why do you only stay when I’m working?” she finally asks weeks later, another hot chocolate on the table between them. A faint blush rises in his cheeks, his eyes on the table, and she should stop there, but now that she’s asked the question, all the other questions are waiting behind it, a dam burst free. “And why do you leave me such ridiculous tips? I mean, it was nice at first, but I’m not some charity case.”

 

That gets his attention, and she can see she’s offended him, the narrowing of his eyes and the flash of anger. “I stay when you are working because you are one of the only people I’ve met to treat me as person since I lost my hand. I stay because when I spend an hour here with you, I don’t feel obliged to go home and drown myself in rum. And I tip well because I believe in paying for services rendered, and being generous while I can. Though truth be told, I will perhaps be forever in your debt no matter how many twenties I leave on this table.”

 

It’s more than he’s said to her since he’s started coming into the diner in the middle of the night, and he’s said it quietly, his voice a rumble like thunder in the distance, but she feels it in her chest and it’s like he’s punched her. His eyes have gone stormy, and they hold hers for another long moment before turning to the window.

 

She doesn’t know what to say, so she turns away, fleeing to the kitchen to gather her thoughts. He’s gone when she comes back out, the hot chocolate untouched but there’s a twenty on the table. She rushes to the door, the rain soaking her almost instantly as she searches the lot for him, but he’s gone without a trace.

 

A week goes by, then another. There’s no sign of him, and Emma feels like she’s holding her breath every time the clock turns takes its turn winding from two to three. Ruby doesn’t say anything, but she can feel her watching her, can see her flinch when someone else sits in _his_ booth in the wee hours of the morning.

 

His words haunt her. _When I spend an hour here with you, I don’t feel obliged to go home and drown myself in rum._ Is that what he’s doing, now? Drinking himself into a stupor to deal with whatever pain he’s so desperate to numb? It’s more than the hand – she’s not stupid. Pain that deep, well, it’s something she knows about.

 

The sun is rising when she leaves, smiling a weary smile as she passes the day cook at the door. It’s a struggle to stop yawning as she makes her way to her car, squinting in the early morning light.

 

There’s a figure leaning up against her car, clad in a black hoodie and jeans, and even if she couldn’t make out the mop of black hair, she knows it’s him. “What are you doing here?” she asks as she approaches, holding her bag closer to her body. It’s not that she’s afraid of him, but she doesn’t _know_ him and she hasn’t seen him in weeks.

 

“Haven’t quite worked it out.” He finally looks up at her, and she sees then the unbridled agony and exhaustion etched into his features, the blue of his eyes shot through with red. He’s always had stubble, but it’s moved from the sexy smattering on his jaw into unkempt and wild.

 

“I’m sorry,” she finally says when the silence grows between them. She’s tired herself, but she can’t walk away from him, can’t leave him here in this parking lot a crumpled mess of broken pieces barely held together by what smells like rum.

 

“Don’t be. You haven’t a reason to be. I never should have….” He stops, takes a deep breath, leans back and closes his eyes. “I should have known I couldn’t just…”

 

“I work the night shift a lot because I can’t sleep,” she says suddenly, her confession surprising even herself. “It somehow seems less fucked up if you can’t sleep at two in the afternoon than two in the morning.”

 

His eyes crack open, a sad smile playing on his lips. “We’re the same, you and I.”

 

“I don’t even know your name.” It’s a weak protest at best, because she _doesn’t_ know his name, but she’s come to know a piece of his soul, one mug of hot chocolate at a time. She knows what he looks like when he’s struggling to hold on, because 2 a.m. isn’t a time for secrets, and neither is the creeping dawn.

 

“Killian Jones.” He offers his hand, and she takes it after hesitating just another moment. His skin is warm in spite of the cool morning, his palm callused as he holds her fingers a few moments longer than he should.

 

“Emma….Swan,” she replies as he drops her hand. A shiver runs down her spine, and it’s got everything to do with the intensity of his gaze. “Do you…how did you get here?”

 

“I walked.”

 

“Do you live far?”

 

He shrugs, shoving his hand into his pocket. “Perhaps a mile.”

 

“Let me drive you home.” The sun is rising, bathing them in a soft orange glow that’s far more beautiful than it has the right to be in the parking lot of the diner.

 

He looks like he wants to argue, but he gets in the car when she gives him a gentle nudge toward the passenger seat. She can feel his eyes on her as she drives, and when she sneaks a glance, he seems a mess of confusion and disbelief.

 

“Why did you care?” he asks as she pulls into the driveway of a small cottage at his direction. She’s surprised by it, the well-maintained paint and neat landscaping. There’s a car in the driveway, but none of the lights are on.

 

“You seemed like you needed someone to care.”

 

He holds her stare, his eyes searching hers, and he must find what he’s looking for, because his eyes slip closed almost as if in relief. “Aye,” he finally says, and there’s so much emotion packed into that one little word that her heart nearly breaks.

 

She reaches across the car, taking his hand in hers and weaving their fingers together. “I care,” she says firmly, willing him to look at her again, to understand she means it. She doesn’t have much to offer – she’s a waitress at a diner, she has a crappy apartment and she’s sort of broken herself – but she _cares_ and for people like them, that might be enough.

 

His kiss is a surprise, his hand winding into her messy braid as he leans across the small space. The kiss is gentle, searching, an invitation. He tastes like rum, and she can _feel_ the need in him, _feel_ the question he’s going to ask when he pulls away.

 

“Would you…will you…stay for a bit?”

 

She nods, smiling shyly as he takes her hand and leads her into the house.

 

It’s three years later, and it’s 2 a.m. when he finds her in their kitchen, slowly stirring a pan of hot chocolate on the stove. She’s wearing a pair of shorts and one of his T-shirts, but the shirt does little to hide the growing swell of her belly. She’s humming to herself when he stumbles in, half-asleep but worried when he didn’t find her in their bed.

 

“What are you doing, love?” he murmurs in her ear, his hand sliding under her shirt to settle over her stomach, fingers splayed over the stretched skin. He kisses her shoulder, breathes her in, and thanks the universe for her for the thousandth time.

 

He’s not sad anymore. He looks at her like she’s precious and a gift, and when he’s like this, sleepy and holding her and their child still wrapped in the protection of her body, all she can see is love and contentment settled cozily in his gaze.

 

She leans back against him, stirring the chocolate liquid, her lips curling into a soft smile. “It turns out your son likes chocolate at two a.m. more than he likes to sleep. I wonder where he got that from…”

 

“Smart lad.” He nuzzles against her neck, his arms around her as he gently rubs her belly. “Do you want me to bring it to you in bed?”

 

“No, it’s all right. I sort of like that we have this, him and I. It’s what brought _us_ together.” She stretches her neck back, her head on his shoulder, hoping for a kiss and getting one.

 

He doesn’t know what brought him into that diner, what made him come back to order yet another coffee he wouldn’t drink just so he could spend an hour with her. He knows that hot chocolate brought him back, and brought them here, and who knew one small mug could change so much?

 

She tastes like chocolate and love and family. He lets his eyes close as they break apart, her back leaning into his chest as she stirs almost absently.

 

It’s 2:17 a.m. and he’s right where he’s supposed to be.

 

 

 


End file.
